


Part I: Meet Qt

by jenlcb



Series: Delayed Gratification [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Musical theatre references, Protective Q, Romance, Snarky Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9206966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenlcb/pseuds/jenlcb
Summary: A fluffy, slightly embarrassing little gender-normative Q/MarySue rom-com mystery science adventure. Q torments a new crew member who really just wants to be left to her own storyline. Then a pre-TWD Negan will show up in Parts 3 and 4, because why wouldn't he?I wrote this way before "Star Trek: Discovery" and it's weird how many elements of that show are similar to things I wrote about (human/Vulcan self-identity issues, awkward curlytop ginger, Alice in Wonderland quotes, non-treatment of physical pain to cover up guilt, members of "The Walking Dead" cast.... It's like we wrote the same fanfic!If Stamets starts busting out musical theatre references, I'm gonna be mad.EDITED: He totally did.





	1. I Believe in Q

_Captain’s Log, Stardate 54123.1 (Earth year 2377)_

_The Enterprise is responding to a distress signal sent by Jaxon Traegar, president of the penal colony on the planet Algalon near the Neutral Zone. A year ago, an epidemic of Tarsen’s disease ravaged the planet. The virus has proven unresponsive to treatment, and due to the highly contagious nature of the disease and its high mortality rate, a select medical crew will be deployed to contain and treat the virus._

_Meanwhile, we have arrived at Starbase 11 to welcome a new crew member. T’Mollek O’Reilly is a Starfleet pediatrician whose mentor, Ambassador T’Sharr of Vulcan, has recommended for consideration on this very mission. With her partial Vulcan heritage, Dr. O’Reilly is immune to Tarsen’s disease. However, the senior staff of the Enterprise have some well-founded reservations. An informal interview has been scheduled to better ascertain her qualifications for the mission._

As she entered the transporter room on Starbase 11, Dr. T’Mollek O’Reilly touched the pendant that hung from her neck. Her fingers felt the softened corners that edged the flatstone disk and the carved letters, NNA, on one side. An indentation had once been on the other side, but she years of absently rubbing it with her thumb had eroded the lettering such that it was no longer legible. She had no idea whose initials “NNA” were, but she’d had the pendant for as long as she could remember. T’Sharr had taken it from her once while she was still her guardian, but T’Mollek found it in the trash and had worn it every day since.

T’Mollek was an oddball, mixed-breed orphan, among Starfleet’s vast array of oddball, mixed-breed orphans. Her spotty Starfleet record and mundane life on Starbase 11 did not exactly scream “suitable to serve on the flagship of the Federation.” And yet here, she was, about to beam aboard the _Enterprise_ itself.

Her past would assuredly come up in her interview with the captain, and she was not looking forward to it. She hoped she could answer truthfully without revealing too much. For all her faults, T’Mollek valued honesty and integrity more than her own life.

She intended to speak no more than necessary.

She stepped onto the transporter pad and held her breath. Despite the illogic, she was terrified of teleportation. She was beamed up to the ship, and when her molecules reassembled themselves on the transporter pad of the _Enterprise_ , she let out her breath in relief.

When she saw who was in her welcome party, she held her breath again.

The captain of the ship himself, Jean-Luc Picard, along with two other high-ranking officers stood before her. They looked somewhat surprised by her physical appearance. She got that a lot. She had the dispassionate gaze of a Vulcan but not the physical stature typical of the race. Shorter, rounder, and paler than most, she had long, unruly auburn curls that refused to see reason. The light ridge of bones on her forehead made her perpetually look like she was about to burst into tears at any moment.

Picard stepped forward and greeted her with a handshake. “Welcome to the _Enterprise_ , Dr. O’Reilly.” He smiled cordially, although she could feel him weighing her physical appearance.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, her voice barely registering. She glanced up at the curly-haired transporter chief with a questioning look. Had there been some mistake? Were they expecting someone else? Some dignitary? Transporter Chief Miles O’Brien merely shrugged. He didn’t understand the welcome party, either.

“This is my first officer, Commander Will Riker,” Captain Picard said, gesturing to the tall, bearded man next to him.

“Commander,” she said, shaking Riker’s hand.

“And ship's counselor, Commander Deanna Troi.”

T’Mollek glanced at the counselor’s face. The pure black irises of her warm, inviting eyes told her this woman was Betazoid. _Why did there have to be an empath?_ she thought ruefully. She would have to put forth special effort to suppress her emotions when in Troi’s company.

“I hope you don't mind,” the captain said with a smile, “but once you've gotten settled in, I've arranged for the four of us to meet in Ten Forward—our ship's lounge at the front of deck ten. To get better acquainted in an informal setting.”

“That sounds amenable,” she said cautiously.

“Excellent. Your quarters are this way.”

The entire contingency walked out the door with Captain Picard himself pulling her suitcase.

“We'll meet you in Ten Forward,” said Riker, eyeing the luggage being pulled by the captain. Who was this woman and why was the captain acting as her personal valet? He didn’t even like doing that when Troi’s mother came to visit. And she was daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed.

Riker and Troi exited together, and Picard and T’Mollek went the opposite direction toward the turbolift.

After several minutes, T’Mollek said, “I appreciate the personal attention, Captain. But why not simply send a yeoman to escort me to my quarters?”

“I wanted to meet you personally,” he answered with a smile and a slightly elevated tone of voice usually reserved for visiting personages he was particularly impressed with. “T’Sharr speaks very highly of your skills.”

“Does she . . .” T’Mollek said dubiously.

“I trust T’Sharr’s judgment,” the captain said sincerely. “If her former ward did not have what it takes to be chief pediatrician on a starship, she would say so.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, still wondering why anyone thought it was a good idea to create the position of chief pediatrician on a Galaxy-class starship—no matter how many children were on board. She had been rather superfluous on the starbase.

They entered the turbo lift. “Deck thirty-two,” Picard ordered.

“You are aware of my Starfleet Academy record,” T’Mollek said.

“Er—yes. Riker, Troi and I have read your transcripts,” Picard answered somewhat hesitantly. “But as I said, I trust T’Sharr implicitly. My experience with her as an ambassador has led me to value her recommendations. She has an uncanny ability to see things in people that others do not.”

“Her intuition is indeed unusually apt,” she said wryly. “Has Commander Riker worked with her as closely as you?”

Again, he seemed somewhat hesitant as the turbolift came to a stop. “Well . . . no. I will be honest, and this is one of the reasons we wanted to meet with you over drinks. Commander Riker has some . . . reservations.”

They stepped out of the turbolift and headed down the corridor.

“Oh?” she said, dispassionately.

“Your past history of emotionality is of some concern to him.” Picard was known throughout the galaxy for his diplomatic skills.

“Understandable,” she agreed.

“But as I explained to him,” he hastened to add, “T’Sharr shared with me that she privately and extensively trained you in Vulcan mental control practices after your . . . childhood tragedy. And she said that your mastery of them was impressive, considering all you had been through.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” T’Mollek observed.

With that cat out of the bag, Picard finally relaxed somewhat. “And that is where Commander Riker has his reservations.”

“Of course.” She should have expected nothing less. So her position on board the _Enterprise_ was not assured after all.

“Well, here we are.” He pressed a code on the security panel outside the door to her quarters. The door opened and they entered.

“I'm afraid your accommodations are a bit small,” he said apologetically. “Not very luxurious, but you are in private quarters.”

“This is adequate. I have no need for luxury.”

“Well,” he said. “Get settled in, and we'll meet you at Ten Forward in one hour.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After he left her quarters, T’Mollek looked around. The room was tiny, even by her standards. On one side of the door was a small desk and chair. On the other side was a replicator built into the wall. Next to that was a twin bed and a nightstand. Within arm’s reach was a private restroom with a shower.

T’Mollek placed her bag on the twin bed and unpacked. The only thing she had brought that wasn’t purely utilitarian was a strangely garish red and white puffer fish carved rather crudely out of bones. She placed it on the small nightstand next to her bed.

She gingerly ran her thumb against one of the spikes. Then a little more roughly. Finally she poked her thumb into the spike slowly until it drew a dot of green blood. She cleaned it off the fish and prepared for the interview that would determine her legacy.

***

Precisely one hour after she had arrived on the ship, T’Mollek entered Ten Forward. The three senior officers were already waiting, and they stood to greet her.

“I trust I am on time?” she asked, a trifle concerned.

“Yes, yes,” said Picard. “Please sit down. We took the liberty of ordering you a Vulcan port. The three of us were just reviewing your records. I was telling them how easily T’Sharr said you had adjusted to life on Vulcan after being raised on Earth.”

“Yes,” said Riker, all business. “How long were you on Earth?”

“Five years, cumulatively,” she answered simply.

“You lived there after your parents died?”

“Before and after.”

“And who raised you after their deaths?”

“My paternal grandparents.”

“They were human?” Riker asked.

“They still are,” she replied, straight-faced.

“Of course.” Unsure whether she had said that sarcastically or sincerely, Riker decided to tag out. He glanced at Troi.

The counselor took up the interview in her soothing voice. “It must have been a difficult adjustment living with grandparents you barely knew on a planet populated by humans.”

T’Mollek put her guard up. “I had been raised all over the galaxy around all manner of species.”

“Your family history is a matter of public record due to the manner in which your parents died,” Troi said with studied sensitivity. “Do you mind speaking about it?”

“No.”

“Pardon me if I get too personal,” the counselor said. “But can you tell us a little about how they died and how that affected you at the time? They were both retired from Starfleet, correct?”

“Yes. They were working for a private security firm. They were killed in a bombing on Nimbus III.”

“You were how old at the time?”

“Ten years old.”

“That must have been difficult,” Troi said compassionately. “You were at a very vulnerable age.” She recalled her own father, who had died when she was seven.

“Yes.” There was a slight pause as the two women sized one another up.

“How long did you live with your paternal grandparents after your parents died?” Troi prompted.

“Three years, seven months.”

“And why did you leave their care?”

“They found me to be . . . difficult.”

“Your emotions were difficult to control,” Troi said encouragingly.

T’Mollek didn’t respond.

“So they sent you to live on Vulcan with your mother’s . . . adoptive family?” Troi asked solicitously. T’Mollek’s mother had been adopted and her parentage was unknown, according to the records.

“T’Sharr was my mentor,” T’Mollek said carefully.

Riker’s curiosity was piqued. “Is that common practice? For Vulcan mentors to . . . adopt orphans?”

“Didn’t Spock serve as guardian to a young orphan?” asked Picard, chiming in. “Uh . . . Saavik?”

“That does sound right,” Riker said thoughtfully.

“Yes, she was involved with the Genesis Project,” added Troi. “Whatever became of Saavik?”

Losing patience, T’Mollek snapped, “We’re not in touch.”

The three senior officers—the very ones who would decide whether she would stay aboard the _Enterprise_ or not based in large part on her temperament—looked at her in surprise. Was she trying to disprove her qualifications to serve here? _Perhaps._ She flushed and looked down at her hands, which were folded on the table next to her untouched glass of port.

Picard looked at her with a trace of newfound doubt. “T’Sharr told me that once you set your mind to controlling your emotions, you were a fast study.”

“I worked hard to please her,” she said submissively, still staring at her hands.

“She speaks very highly of you,” Picard said with a faint smile.

“Thank you, sir.”

Riker took on the bad cop role of the interrogation. “Your mother was half-Vulcan, but she didn't think you needed to learn the culturally appropriate mental disciplines as a child? Aren't Vulcan and Romulan emotions inherently more . . . volatile than human ones? Didn’t she think that might cause problems?”

There were several questions on the table, but T’Mollek merely replied, “Yes.”

“I think what he's asking,” Troi stepped in helpfully, “is, why didn’t you spend any of your childhood on Vulcan?”

Riker decided to cut to the chase. “I think the elephant in the room is your Romulan heritage.”

“My heritage is not an elephant, Commander,” T’Mollek said quietly.

“It's an expression,” he explained indulgently. “It means—”

“I am aware of what it means,” she interrupted quietly but edgily. She no longer felt the need to be polite. This was a sore subject for her under the best of circumstances. If they wished to deny her a position due to her Romulan blood and their perceived fears of how it might affect her performance, she was going to have something to say about it.

“ _I_ mean that I am not ashamed of my heritage. My grandmother was half-Romulan and half-Vulcan. She was orphaned and raised on Vulcan. Her daughter—my mother—was raised on Earth.”

Thoroughly confused, Riker asked, “Why?”

“She was considered illegitimate and unwanted. She was adopted by a human family and raised on Earth.” T’Mollek knew she was sharing entirely too much information at this point. But she wasn’t sharing all.

“Earth was where she attended the Academy, met your father, and raised you?” Riker asked.

“I was raised all over the galaxy. As I said.”

“With no formal training in emotional control?” he pressed.

“Correct. My mother had a natural control over her emotions. She was able to help me control mine. After her death, I began my training with T’Sharr.”

Troi gave Riker a reproachful look.

“I apologize if I overstepped my bounds,” he said, not sounding sorry. For all his heroics and command skills, Riker could be one specist son of a bitch.

T’Mollek looked him in the eyes impassively for several moments. She decided he would be her prime adversary in the weeks to follow. She decided to test him.

After an extremely uncomfortable silence, she decreed, “Apology accepted.”

Riker wanted to clear the air of the tension. The hardnosed approach wasn’t getting them anywhere, so he decided to turn on the charm. “You haven’t touched your port. Would you rather just have a glass of water?” He lifted a hand, trying to get the attention of the wait staff.

“No, it’s fine,” she said.

“It’s no trouble,” he said ingratiatingly. “I’ll be right back.”

Troi watched her former lover make his way to the bar. She was only half-Betazoid so could generally only read the emotions of other beings. But with Will, her Imzadi, she could read so much more. He moved fast on women, but not usually this fast. T’Mollek looked down at her hands. There was an awkward silence as they waited for Riker to return.

Soon, he sauntered back, approaching his chair from behind and easily swung one leg over the top to seat himself, somewhat like a cowboy mounting a horse. T’Mollek watched this slick move with a sidelong glare but didn’t say anything.

“Here’s your water,” he said with a suave smile.

“Thank you,” she said. But rather than politely taking a sip, she pointedly set the glass aside next to her untouched port.

“Can you tell us about your skills?” Riker said, his voice softer now and more conversational than interrogatory.

T’Mollek lifted an eyebrow innocently and almost coquettishly. “Skills?”

Slightly flustered, Riker stammered, “Er, specialized skills, such as the mind meld and the nerve pinch?”

“I am accomplished at both.”

“As to the matter of your, uh, Starfleet record . . .” Picard began. He was choosing his words wisely.

“Yes, sir. I failed the psychological exam on my first attempt.”

 “They felt you weren’t performing to your full potential,” Picard said, trying to prompt her to explain why that might have been.

“Correct,” was all T’Mollek said. In truth, she had only joined Starfleet under T’Sharr’s orders. T’Mollek owed her life to her aunt. If not for her, T’Mollek would most likely be dead.

“But you passed your second attempt,” Picard said with a helpful smile.

It was Riker’s turn. “According to your records, you began your career specializing in infectious diseases. Why did you end up in pediatrics?”

T’Mollek gave him a long look before answering, stone-faced, “Children like me.”

Riker looked at Picard and Troi, his voice hardening again, just slightly. She was evidently impervious to his charm. “I'm still not convinced we need a head of pediatrics. We already have plenty of medical personnel. Why should we take you on?”

“Because T’Sharr convinced the captain you should.”

Riker wasn’t sure if she was being a jerk or just a Vulcan. Slightly impatient, he asked, “What do you think you'll bring to the table?”

In a deadpan voice, T’Mollek recited her resume by rote: “I have an extensive background in infectious disease research. I have experience with many alien cultures and anatomies. I have worked hard to overcome my past and I have a great deal to prove. I wish to carry on my parents' legacies in Starfleet—to ‘make them proud.’ I am a fast and eager learner, and I am a team player who works well with others.”

Now he knew she was being a jerk. The interview had come to a screeching halt.

“Well, I think we’ve asked all the questions we have,” Picard said. “Can I accompany you to the turbolift, Dr. O’Reilly?”

“Yes, sir.”

They rose and exited Ten Forward.

“What do you think?” Deanna asked Will after they had gone.

“I was expecting her to be more . . . fiery,” he replied, his jovial, rakish self once more.

“Because of her Romulan heritage?”

“Because of her _Irish_ heritage,” he said. “Remember the Bringloidi?” He was referring to a group of humans of Irish descent that lived on Bringloid V. They were a simple people and he had had a brief but—well, _fiery—_ relationship with one of their people, Brenna Odell.

“Will,” Troi said distastefully. “That’s _offensive._ ”

***

The interview had been more difficult than she had imagined it would be. Reliving her past failures and setting the stage to carry out T’Sharr’s plot had been demoralizing. She was thankful that her Starfleet assessment had not been discussed at length. “Stubborn and doesn't like to be told what to do. Shows no leadership ability. Lacks ambition. Almost appears to deliberately avoid living up to full potential. Plagued with self-doubt. Persecution complex. Difficulty suppressing emotions. Defensive, but withdraws when confronted. Loner, quiet, keeps to herself, few friends. Mediocre student. Non-athletic, awkward, clumsy, and lacks grace. Cautious, risk-averse, and suffers from claustrophobia.”

Essentially, she was a loser. Even her family thought so. No one had come to her Starfleet commencement when she graduated—without honors, of course. Her tickets went unused.

She had once heard a Vulcan uncle use the word kre’nath (literally “shamed one”) to describe her mother, T’Auvilyn, who had been born illegitimately and sent to Earth to live among humans. His wife was the only one who had shown her any sympathy at all. It was she who had sought out T’Auvilyn’s adoptive family on Earth. But T’Sharr had kept T’Mollek locked away for the most part, in training.

She had important plans for her.

***

As they approached the turbolift, T’Mollek slowly became aware that the captain was speaking to her.

“. . . discuss the interview, and we will let you know our final decision by the end of the week,” he was saying. “If all goes well, you’ll accompany us to Algalon. If not . . . well, I’m sure Starbase 11 will be happy not to lose you.”

“I appreciate the opportunity, Captain.” She was already planning to repack her personal effects.

“Now, you’re not a guest here, Doctor,” he assured her. “You’re a full-fledged member of the crew until . . . well, until you’re not. But I look forward to seeing how you perform this week.”

Commander Riker approached them, jogging around the corner to catch the turbolift with the captain. He didn’t seem to notice the five-foot-two T’Mollek was there, despite her bright hair and the less-than-subtle flirting he’d been doing a few minutes before.

“Well, that was one of the most uncomfortable job interviews I’ve ever suffered through,” he said wryly.

Captain Picard hastily raised his voice. “I was just telling Dr. O’Reilly that with her research skills and connection with children, she would be a fine addition to the medical staff.”

Riker’s eyebrows went up as he realized his faux pas. However, he did not apologize. “I think you'll find that real-world life-or-death scenarios are far different from life on Starbase 11,” he said, all business. Picard gave him a look, and Riker added, more diplomatically, “But we’ll let you know what we decide.”

Picard was hailed by the bridge. Over the speaker, Security Chief Worf informed him that sensors indicated the _Enterprise_ was orbiting the planet Syroda—several lightyears away from Starbase 11.

“That’s impossible,” the captain snapped irritably. “We just left the starbase less than two hours ago. Check the sensors again and run a full system scan.”

“Aye, sir,” the Klingon security chief said sheepishly. “But we have visual of Syroda on the view screen.”

Just then the turbolift came to a jolting halt, knocking the three passengers into one another awkwardly.

“Well, isn't this cozy?” a smug voice said rhetorically. “It's like being trapped in an Adalusian cave. Who's up for a _ménage_ à _quatre_?”

“Ugh!” Riker sighed loudly at the tall man who had appeared from out of nowhere in the turbolift with them. The man was wearing a Starfleet uniform and an admiral’s pips.

“Don't roll your eyes, Riker,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “It’s rude.”

“You,” snapped Picard irritably, then muttered, “I might have known.”

“You always say that,” the man remarked off-handedly. “But might you really, _mon capitai—_ aaand who is this vision?” he interrupted himself, breezing past Picard to sidle up to T’Mollek.

Picard did a double take, not used to being so blatantly ignored.

T’Mollek stood up straight, at attention, uncertain who this admiral was, why he had beamed onto the turbolift, and why his attitude was so casual. “I am Dr. T'Mollek O'Reilly.”

“T'Mollek O'Reilly? Pointed ears, curly red hair, blue eyes, deep scowl.” The man smiled, intrigued. “ _What_ are you?”

Tensely and with dignity, she answered, “I am a Starfleet pediatrician.”

“Among other things, I'm sure. . .” he muttered with a grin.

“Q!” Picard had had enough. “Why are we orbiting Syroda?”

“It's a nice planet,” he replied off-handedly, not taking his eyes of T’Mollek. “I'm sure you'll meet nice people there.”

“You've put us months away from our rescue mission on Algalon,” barked Picard. “The lives of a dozen children are at stake. How can complete our mission when you move us around in space like some sort of chess piece?”

Q waved him off dismissively. “I'm sure you'll think of something and it will all work out just fine in the end. And as for you, Doctor Tamale . . . .” He leaned in, putting his mouth very close to her ear. “What do _you_ want?

“What do I . . .?” T’Mollek began, confused.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked in a sudden about-face.

The preceding conversation had explained it. She had read all the mission logs that were publicly available. “You are Q. A mischievous and omniscient entity who has repeatedly acted as an antagonist to the crew of the _Enterprise_ and countless other beings across the galaxy.”

“My reputation precedes me!” Q chortled with glee, looking at the men in the turbolift. Then he leaned in dramatically again, face to face with T’Mollek. “Tell me, Doctor: are you afraid of me?”

Afraid might not be the word for it, but she was certainly feeling something. She answered with a tight throat, clenched stomach, and pounding heart. “No.”

He circled her like a predator, leaning low to meet her gaze. He was a full foot taller than she was.

“Tell me something else,” he said. He whispered into her ear so the others couldn’t hear. “ _Do you want to have a baby_?”

T’Mollek felt a sudden twinge in her abdominal region. She stammered but was unable to make a coherent response.

“We’ll talk more,” Q said full-voiced, standing tall again. He kissed her hand, his eyes smoldering. “‘Til we meet again, **_a chuisle mo_** _chroí **[1]**_ ,” he murmured huskily.

She held her breath as she stared into his eyes.

“Laters!” he called out cheerfully, vanishing in a flash of light.

T’Mollek could still feel something in her hand. She opened it, palm up. She was holding a small rag doll with curly red hair, blue eyes, and a blue dress.

“What _was_ that?” Riker asked Picard, actually impressed by Q’s moves. “Vulcan?”

“I think it was . . . Gaelic,” Picard said, a bit disquieted.

T’Mollek gasped and faltered dizzily against the wall of the turbolift. “Do you feel that?”

Before they could answer, they heard the sound of a baby crying. Three sets of eyes darted to the little bundle on the floor in the opposite corner of the lift. The baby’s tiny green face peeped out from the swaddling.

Instinctively, T’Mollek went into physician mode, picking the infant up at once. As soon as the babe was safe in her arms, the turbolift jolted into motion again before stopping at the bridge. The doors opened.

“Great,” Riker said drily as he walked onto the bridge. “He left us a baby.”

“He left _her_ a baby,” Picard said tensely, following. “Doctor, take the child to sickbay and give it a thorough examination. Bring me a full report the moment you’re through.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, taking a step backward in the turbolift. The doors closed. She stared at the child in her arms for several seconds.

“Destination?” the female computer voice inquired, interrupting her thoughts.

She cleared her throat and stammered nervously, “S-sicks bay.”

***

“What on Earth . . . .?” The ship’s chief medical officer Beverly Crusher was not expecting to see the newest member of her medical staff hard at work less than two hours after her arrival. Even more, she was not expecting to see a green baby lying in a basket on an examination table in her sickbay.

“What on Orion, to be more precise,” T’Mollek said. “I've confirmed the infant Yob to be of that planet.”

“The infant . . . Yob?” Crusher repeated, over-enunciating the “b” at the end of the word, unsure if she had heard correctly.

T’Mollek held the baby’s left wrist, showing Crusher the bracelet he wore with “Y-O-B” spelled out in yellow beads. “I was on the turbolift with Captain Picard and Commander Riker when it stopped suddenly and the Q entity appeared. When he left, Yob was there.”

“That sounds like Q,” Dr. Crusher acknowledged, a wry scowl on her face.

“I need to report to the Captain my findings, but before I do . . .” T’Mollek hesitated. “Could you give me a quick medical scan?”

“Of course,” Crusher replied, picking up a small medical scanner. “Is something wrong?”

“When I was in the turbolift, I experienced orthostatic hypotension. My heart rate increased and my stomach felt . . . strange. As if I were experiencing freefall.”

Crusher held the medical scanner up to the younger doctor. “I don't see anything out of the ordinary. Did the turbolift drop quickly?” It would not have been the first time the turbolift had plummeted unexpectedly—once nearly killing Lieutenant LaForge in the process.

“It wasn't in motion at the time,” T’Mollek answered. “I thought it was some atmospheric anomaly created by Q, but neither the captain nor Commander Riker felt anything unusual.”

“Well, it sounds like a delayed head rush as a result of the turbolift stopping suddenly,” Crusher said uncertainly. “I'm sure it was nothing to be concerned about. If it happens again, let me know right away and I'll give you a more thorough look-over. Oh, and I think this—” she held up the baby’s bracelet—“spells ‘BOY.’”

“Oh. So it does,” said T’Mollek, slightly startled and even more embarrassed. “Thank you.” She frowned slightly, wondering why Q would need to point out the child’s gender to her.

Crusher turned to go.

“Uh, Dr. Crusher?”

“Yes?”

“I need to report to the captain now.” She hesitated, and Crusher waited patiently. “Do I . . . just go up there? Or do I announce myself first?”

Crusher heroically kept a straight face. “You can just go up there.”

“Thank you.” T’Mollek relaxed and brushed past Crusher, causing the senior officer to take a step back.

Crusher watched the sickbay door close, grinned, and waited. The door re-opened, T’Mollek re-entered, picked up the baby, and departed again.

  


[1] Pulse of my heart


	2. Hide & SeeQ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q sets up a dangerous scavenger hunt for the pediatrician.

## Hide & SeeQ

Captain Picard was not having a good day.

A beefy Orion male was on the view screen, nearly apoplectic. “Who are you?” he demanded, his green face dark with fury. “You say you have my son?”

“I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_. We have . . . _located_ your son. And your name is . . .?”

“I am Mateer,” he sputtered furiously. “What ransom do you demand?”

“We want no ransom,” Picard said, galled but diplomatic. “We sent out the hail to Syroda searching for the child’s parents because the infant was left here. By an entity we know as Q.”

Mateer became incensed. “If you are partners with Q, then prepare for war!” He reached for what appeared to be another communication device, perhaps to rally his troops.

A beep emitted from a speaker and T’Mollek’s voice tentatively offered, “Captain, I have a report on the—”

“Bring the infant to the bridge _immediately!_ ” Picard shouted.

“Y-yes sir.”

Mateer set his communication device down, eager to see his son.

“We are not partners with Q,” Picard said more calmly but with an edge in his voice that he hoped communicated his mutual disdain for that troublemaker. “He has caused us nothing but bedlam and turmoil since we first encountered him.”

“So you will assist me in bringing him to justice,” the Orion said. “Do you have my daughter as well?”

Picard blanched. “Your daughter . . .?”

“She has been missing for three days.”

“I'm sorry, Mateer, we know nothing of your daughter,” Picard admitted, genuinely sympathetic. “But we do have your son, and we're anxious to return him to you.”

At that, the turbolift door at the back of the bridge slid open and T’Mollek entered the bridge, carrying the baby. She looked up at the view screen and instantly surmised that the man she saw was the boy’s father. She gently moved the blanket away from his face and held him up to the screen so his father could see him.

The man’s face softened and his eyes welled with tears.

Picard, in a gesture of diplomacy and goodwill, took the child from T’Mollek’s arms with an uncomfortable smile. The baby immediately began crying.

“No,” shouted Mateer paternally. “He likes the woman. She will deliver him to me. You come, too, Picard, and bring Q with you. He will stand trial and be executed for his crimes.”

“Executed?” Picard said. “For kidnapping? The baby is unharmed. I don't understand.”

Mateer bared his teeth and leaned in toward the screen. His eyes flashed with fury and sorrow.

“Q murdered my wife.”

***

The landing party consisted of Picard, T’Mollek, and Riker, who had come along to ensure the captain’s safety in case Mateer took umbrage with the fact that they had not turned Q over to them. Although they had called to him, Q generally only turned up when you least wanted him there.

The three crewmembers were seated at a large, round, ornate table in the dining hall of Mateer’s lavish estate.

“I still do not understand how Q could kidnap my baby, deposit him on your starship, and then escape,” Mateer grumbled. “Is he not a member of your crew?”

Picard was unsure how exactly to address this. It was not public knowledge that Q was omnipotent, and sharing that information with the justifiably angry and no doubt well-connected mogul might not be the wisest course of action.

“Q is . . . no ordinary man,” Picard began, hedging. “But we have never known him to murder . . . anyone.” He had chosen his words carefully. On their first encounter at Farpoint, Q had actually threatened to exterminate the entire human race. And his actions had been responsible for a number of deaths, although never by his own hand, per se. However, he always seemed to make sure that the threat of death and destruction loomed in the air whenever he met them.

“Why do you believe he murdered your wife?” Picard asked.

“Galena and I had no interest in the Orion slave trade, so we became interstellar traders of goods. We amassed a fortune and set up a business here on Syroda, where the males are immune to the effects of Orion females’ pheromones. But we needed a Syrodan partner. We met a man who claimed to be Syrodan. He called himself Q. He was fascinated by our story—that Galena had shunned her sensuality in favor of business. That she considered me to be an equal partner rather than her slave. He said we were the evolution of our species. He introduced us to his investor, Antius Bandeen. But Q was not Syrodan, he was _human_. When he was alone with my wife, he gave in to the intoxication of her pheromones. And when my wife refused his advances, he forced himself on her and murdered her in cold blood.”

T’Mollek listened to this with an impassive expression but she inexplicably felt her stomach go cold.

Picard shook his head. “This does not sound like the Q we know. He is a menace, to be sure, but not inherently violent and certainly not driven by such base instincts as sexual desire.”

“And he is not human,” T’Mollek added quietly, although nobody heard her.

“I know what I heard,” Mateer argued. “The screams, the threats. And when I came into the room, Q was standing over Galena’s body. I ran for a weapon but when I returned, he was gone and my daughter was missing. We didn’t find Kandeera until the next day— _inside_ the walls of the house. I have no idea how she got there. We had to cut the wall open to free her. She was traumatized, wouldn't speak for days. When she did, she only said, ‘Q locked me in the wall.’”

The three Starfleet officers sat in stunned silence.

“Q must die for his crime,” Mateer said again.

“What about this investor—Antius Bandeen?” asked T’Mollek. “He was Syrodan?”

“He was human, like Q,” Mateer said. “Bandeen had gone missing by the time I arrived and caught Q with my wife’s ravaged, mutilated body. Like Q, he cannot be traced.”

“I’m afraid I'm not certain we will be able to locate Q on your behalf,” said Picard.

“He must be apprehended,” Mateer countered. “He has my daughter. I do not want to contemplate what he is doing to her.”

“We’ve scanned the entire house,” said Picard. “She’s not here—not even within the walls. Is there anywhere else she might have hidden?”

“There is nothing but open ground for many kilometers.”

“That magician somehow brought my son on board your ship,” Mateer pointed out. “My daughter could be anywhere by now.”

Suddenly T’Mollek spoke up, her voice clear and strong. “Are there any caves nearby?”

“There is a cave about fifty kilometers from here, near the city of Andalusia,” answered Mateer.

She nodded and took a quick breath. “We have to go there immediately.”

“Why?” asked Riker, inexplicably irritated at her sudden confidence.

“On the turbo lift, Q referenced an Andalusian cave,” said T’Mollek. “I believe it was a clue.”

Riker let out a long-suffering sigh. “I'm so tired of Q's clues.”

***

They arrived at the cave at dusk. The cave had one opening, and it was blocked off. Signage warned that it was unsafe to enter due to the risk of cave-ins. Riker attempted to scan the cave for signs of the girl but received nothing but a blank screen.

“The walls are lined with Sarrazinium,” explained Mateer. “A highly valuable mineral but impermeable by scanning technology.”

“Nevertheless, I am quite confident she is here,” T’Mollek said.

“Is there anyone in the city who can safely extricate the girl?” Picard asked.

“No one,” Mateer said, his voice choked with emotion. “The passageways are too narrow. After hundreds of child miners died in cave-ins, the mines were permanently closed. It’s too dangerous.”

“Kandeera has been missing for three days,” said Picard. “She may be hurt. Or worse. If she’s in there, we have to get her out now.”

T’Mollek felt light-headed and nauseous. “I'll do it.”

“Are you certain?” Picard asked.

“I understand the risk,” she said.

Mateer’s voice caught as her thanked her. He handed her a flashlight, a piece of chalk, and a small shoulder bag containing a canteen of water and some fruit. “Do you know any Orion folk songs, by chance?” he asked through tears. “She loves music. It may calm her.”

T’Mollek felt a chill, which she shook off. “I'll improvise.”

T'Mollek stood outside the cave and drew in a long, deep breath. Aware of the eyes on her, she knew she had no choice but to go inside without hesitation. She felt her feet moving and realized this was really happening. There was no turning back now.

She flipped on the flashlight and swung it side to side. The tunnel led farther inside than she could see. She followed the tunnel for a hundred meters or so when the walls began to sharply narrow. Although she was only 5’2”, she had to stoop to walk through the passage.

"Kandeera?” she called. “Can you hear me?" Her voice sounded loud in her own ears. There was nowhere for the sound to travel. She walked on, making chalk marks on the walls as she did.

After twenty minutes of walking hunched over with both arms lightly scraping the sides of the cave, she reached a split in the passageway and a more open space. She stood to her full height and debated which direction she should try first. Knowing that most Orions were right-handed, she quickly marked the wall with an arrow and headed to the right.

Soon, the passageway narrowed again, so much so that she was forced to crawl. She willed her heartbeat and her breathing to slow. She did not like narrow passageways.

Mateer had mentioned Kandeera's love of music, particularly folk songs. She did not know any Orion folk songs but she searched her memory for songs her mother had sung to her as a child.

In pieces it came to her, and she began to sing:

 _Speed thee, my arrow, swift as a flying dove._  
Hasten to her afar. Tell her my love.  
Speed thee, my arrow true. My bonny white-winged dart.  
Be thou my messenger straight to her heart.  
Out in the twilight stood I so true and brave,  
And 'neath the silent stars, my promise gave:   
"I will be true to thee, my sweetheart 'til I die  
And promise thee my own, Pi Beta Phi."

The song calmed T'Mollek herself, and she sang it over and over for an hour until her voice was tired and the last echoes faded into themselves.

Then she heard the echo return. “Pi Beta Phi.” The tiny voice was weak and raspy but T’Mollek rapidly crawled toward it.

The little girl was huddled in a corner of a half-meter high opening.

“Hello, Kandeera,” she said softly. “My name is T’Mollek. I’m a doctor. Your father sent me to find you. I'm going to get you home to him.” She pulled out the bottle of water and the child drank thirstily.

“Careful. Not too fast,” T’Mollek cautioned. “Would you like some fruit?”

“Not just yet,” Kandeera said, taking another sip. “Thank you.”

Then T’Mollek remembered something. She pulled an object from the shoulder bag and held it out to her with one hand, her flashlight in the other, illuminating the space. “Here, I have something for you.”

“Tika!” Kandeera nearly shrieked. “You found my Tika!”

Somehow, T’Mollek was not surprised that the red-headed, blue-eyed doll that Q had slipped into her hand in the turbolift belonged to Kandeera.


	3. Tale as Old as Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q corners the pediatrician at her own party, and the sexual tension exceeds expectations.

The lavish banquet Mateer threw to honor T’Mollek was unlike any she had ever attended. As a lowly children’s doctor on a remote starbase, the most celebratory feast generally involved a cake and balloons.

In less than twenty-four hours, however, Mateer had managed to assemble a one-hundred piece orchestra, a troupe of theatre performers, and an artist who could paint photo-realistic portraits of the guests in under three minutes. The banquet hall took up the entire north wing of his manor, and it was filled with guests from all over Syroda dressed in their finest.

Picard, Riker, and T’Mollek looked comparatively frumpy in their dress uniforms—white jackets with gold trim, and black trousers with gold stripes.

T’Mollek herself was picked up from her guest quarters by a carriage drawn by six white unicorns and paraded around the estate to the whistles and cheers of onlookers—both invited guests and members of the public who had heard about the double rescue of the mogul’s children by the unassuming Starfleet pediatrician.

After the dog and pony show, which featured Syroda’s premiere animal performers, T’Mollek was taken to the head table to be seated at the right hand of Mateer. Next to her sat Captain Picard, with Riker to his right. They were served a marvelous dinner consisting of a variety of foods imported from Vulcan—not merely replicated. Mateer had contacts all over Syroda who specialized in such exotic fare. Plomeek soup, gespar rolls, soltar, and pok tar were only a few of the items that comprised the first course of the meal.

After dinner was eaten and the plates were cleared away, T’Mollek overheard Mateer telling the captain that he was going to make a toast in her honor. She used that moment to quietly slip away from the table and duck down a hallway. She found refuge in a dark, quiet corner near the coat room. The faint sounds from the party were merely a low hum.

“Well, look who's the belle of the ball,” a sarcastic voice said, breaking the welcome silence.

She turned toward the voice and saw Q standing before her, wearing a costume reminiscent of 18th century France—a long blue coat with gold trim, black trousers, and a white shirt with ruffles at the neck and sleeves. His hair was long and pulled back with a blue ribbon. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that she was wearing a yellow dress over a wide hoop skirt. She felt a breeze on her neck because her long hair was piled up on top of her head. She placed a gloved hand on her now-exposed décolletage and raised an eyebrow.

“Yellow is not my color.”

“Well, I think it suits you,” he said loftily. “Anyway, this is better than those dreary Starfleet dress uniforms. I felt like some sort of a concierge.”

“You didn’t have to wear a dress uniform,” T’Mollek pointed out. “You were not invited.”

He scowled at her. “That was a low blow.”

“Apparently Mateer is disinclined to welcome murderers and kidnappers into his family’s home for celebratory feasts. Especially ones who murdered and kidnapped members of his own family.”

“What?” Q tried to sound shocked. Then he added dismissively, “Oh, come now, you know me better than that.”

“Actually, I do not know you at all.”

“Well, you are in for a treat,” he said cheerfully, “because you are about to get to know me _very_ well. Let me tell you what really happened.”

Q took her hand and led her to a plush bench along the back wall. They sat down. Q placed his foot on the bench behind T’Mollek, his knee bent and resting against her back. She knew she should move away from the contact, but she was already literally on the edge of her seat to hear his story.

“The Q Continuum was interested in studying Mateer and Galena because they were acting opposed to their Orion natures,” he said. “As you know, they are a highly sexualized species. But _these_ two were choosing to shun their natural instincts in favor of a more . . .  straightforward way of doing business. Galena did everything she could to make herself unattractive physically. She cut off all her hair. Plucked out her eyelashes. She even resorted to self-mutilation. Burned scars into her own face. Ghastly.”

He shook his head and shuddered.

“Mateer thought I was Syrodan, of course,” he went on, “because I appeared to him as you see me now—”

“A cartoon prince with a ponytail?” she cut in dryly.

Q’s mouth was still open, mid-sentence. He closed it, gave her a withering look, and snapped his fingers. They were back in their Starfleet dress uniforms.

“—and because I wasn’t going gaga over Galena,” he continued as though he had never stopped. “So they wanted to go into business with me _I_ was posing as a purveyor of precious materials.”

“When in fact you were a purveyor of lies.”

“No, no, no, no,” he protested. “Not lies. _Misdirection_. I had made quite a name for myself among the Orions and Ferengi. I had stock the likes of which no one had ever seen. Of course, I’d conjured it all up using my powers. Anyway, I had this 'new technology' that he wanted in on, the details aren't important . . .”

He paused, clearly waiting for her to interrupt and ask for details. When she didn’t, he told her anyway, too delighted with himself not to share.

“OK, it was a device that replicated gold-pressed latinum. Well! I have no head for business, and frankly by this point, I was bored with them. But I introduced him to another human male, one who was particularly . . . virile. I was curious to see how he and Galena would get along.” He paused. “They didn’t. _That_ ended badly.”

T’Mollek sat up at that. “You deliberately set her up to be attacked and murdered.”

“I didn't exactly set it up. I just . . . introduced them and let nature take its course. So to speak. And it was ugly. So ugly, I very nearly stopped the whole thing.”

“’Nearly’? You had the opportunity to stop it but you instead watched a man attack and murder your friend's wife?”

“No, no, no,” he protested again with a dismissive shake of his head. “He wasn't my friend! But anyway, then he went after the little girl. And that just didn't seem right. So I . . . hid her.”

“You hid her.”

“I hid her.”

“In a wall.”

“It was a . . . roomy wall.”

T’Mollek took a deep breath to calm herself. “You hid a small child inside a wall, in the room where her mother had just been attacked and murdered.”

There was a defensive pause. “

Yes,” Q answered. “I didn't have time to think! So Mateer hears the screaming, you know, his wife—and he comes charging into the room with a weapon, a . . . gun of some sort. I'm standing there, _protectively_ _holding_ the little girl. Mateer is about to _brutally murder_ the man in the child’s bedroom, right on top of her murdered mother, you see. Well, again, I didn't have time to think, so in an instant, I simultaneously fled, transferred the child to where she couldn't see the carnage, and—”

“You sealed a child inside the walls of her house.”

“‘I didn't have time to think,’ I said.”

She closed her eyes and placed a hand over her forehead. “They had to use saws to cut her out of the wall. Saws that came very close to her inside the wall, where they could not see her. She could have been killed.”

“Well, she obviously wasn't,” he pointed out.

“Why couldn't you just . . . 'transfer' her back into the house after the attacker was gone?”

“She'd seemed pretty frightened by the first experience,” he said in a reasonable tone. “I didn't want to terrify her twice.”

“You left a small child trapped in a coffin-sized space inside a dark wall of the room she had just seen her mother brutally attacked and murdered.”

They glared at one another for several seconds.

“ _Yes_?” Q asked fiercely.

“She will carry those emotional scars with her for years to come,” she said quietly, as though to herself.

“No, she won't,” he said brusquely.

Having no argument for that, she pressed him. “You wouldn't use your powers to remove her from the wall, because it would 'frighten' her. But you did use them to place her into a cold, dark cave. Why?”

“She was asleep at the time,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in the air. “She didn't know what hit 'er.”

“That is not the point!” she shouted. Her voice echoed throughout the hallway.

Q’s eyes opened wide with surprise and intrigue.

Without missing a single beat, she continued impassively, “Why place her in a cave at all?”

“So you’d have someone to rescue,” he said simply, as if that made all the sense in the world. “And I will state again for the record that she was asleep at the time.”

“But she eventually woke up to find herself _not_ in her own, warm, safe bed, but in a _cold, dark cave_ with no water or food. _For absolutely no reason whatsoever._ ”

“Oh, stop,” he chided. “I told you there was a reason. And besides . . . there was some standing water where I put her. And I left her a sandwich.”

“She was there for nearly a week—cold, alone, in the dark.”

“It was three days,” he muttered with a roll of the eyes.

“It was unconscionable.”

“Well . . .” he began, before finishing with, “whatever.”

“Mateer believes you murdered his wife,” she told him.

“Well, that makes sense,” he mused, holding up a finger as he remembered the events in a different light now, “because I transferred Antius Bandeen into the walls of that cave at the same time I vanished. Mateer only saw _me_ standing there over his dead wife, holding his little daughter. . . . _Protecting_ her,” he pointedly reminded her.

T’Mollek was aghast and nearly lost her stoic façade. “You trapped a murderer in a cave with the little girl he’d tried to attack?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” he said reassuringly. “Let me be more specific: I transferred his _atoms_ into the rocky _walls_ of the cave.” He smiled expectantly, waiting to be congratulated.

After a long pause, T’Mollek said flatly, her head swimming, “You murdered Antius Bandeen.”

“Says who?” he said defensively.

“ _You_ just says— _said_.”

“I spread his _atoms_ inside the walls of the cave,” he clarified, a touch annoyed. “I didn't touch his soul.”

“You mean that he is still alive?”

Q shrugged vaguely. “In a manner of speaking.”

“He is . . . aware?”

“Oh, quite aware.”

Breathlessly, T’Mollek digested this news. “That . . . is lurid.”

Q scoffed and muttered, “Well, you shoulda seen what he'd done to Galena.”

“You need to reassemble him so that he can stand trial for what he did.”

“You need to stop telling me what I need to do! You are not judge and jury. The Q carry out justice in our own way.” He was picking up momentum now. “Never let it be said that—”

His tirade was interrupted by the high-pitched shriek of a young girl. “It's the bad man who magicked me!”

Kandeera had been passing by on her way to a restroom when she spotted her attacker.

Suddenly congenial, Q protested, “No, no, I'm a friend. There's no reason to be afraid of me.” He threw his arm companionably around T’Mollek’s shoulder. “See? We're best buddies!”

T’Mollek felt an electrical charge at his touch. She drew in a sharp breath and felt her upper body grow warm as though with fever—the shoulder he was gripping energetically, the back of her neck. Warm and almost . . . tingling. She realized her arm had automatically wrapped around his back, her hand resting on his waist. For balance. She hastily removed it.

Taking a deep breath, T’Mollek crouched before the girl, speaking in a soothing voice. “Kandeera, it’s fine. He was just hiding you to protect you. He didn't mean to hurt you. He was the one who gave me your Tika to give back to you.”

“Would you like another doll for your friend?” Q asked ingratiatingly. “How 'bout a whole basket of 'em?” Really trying to win her over, he pulled out of the air a large basket full of dozens of dolls of all sizes and colors. They represented humanoids of many worlds. Kandeera imagined the fun she could have playing with them, but none would ever mean as much to her as the doll that looked like her hero. She would treasure her Tika for the rest of her life.

Then she remembered who had given Tika to her. Kandeera eyed Q suspiciously.

“It's really OK,” T’Mollek reassured her. “He's a 'friend.' He won't ever magic you again. Will he . . . ?” She glared pointedly at Q.

He glared back. “No. He will not.”

Her eyes darting back and forth between T’Mollek, Q, and that inviting basket of dolls, Kandeera finally relented. “Oka-a-ay,” she said begrudgingly. She took hold of the basket handle and lugged it behind her down the hallway to her room, a sweet scowl on her face but a twinkle in her eyes.

“All right, enough about me,” Q said when the child was gone, cheerfully and abruptly changing the subject as he sat back down on their bench. “I want to know more about _you_. Your parents were in Starfleet, then they did private security. They died. What about your grandparents. What’s their story?”

“Unimportant,” T’Mollek said sternly dismissive and not ready to move on. “Why didn't you just tell us where Kandeera was? Why send us on a scavenger hunt?”

“Because scavenger hunts are fun.”

“What if we had failed to solve your mystery?”

“I knew you'd figure it out, Tommy. It wasn’t that hard. Besides, you're smarter than they realize—than _you_ realize. But I believed in you. And now, they're starting to recognize your abilities.”

“It was my first day as a crew member. I do not need to be tested by an immortal being in order to prove my worth.”

“Don't you? Is your Starfleet record so stellar they were wowed by all your accomplishments and problem-solving skills?”

“My Starfleet record is—”

“Lackluster. Boring. Unimpressive. How'd you even make it on the crew of the _Enterprise_ , anyway?”

“After years of dedicated service on the space station, the right opportunity presented itself.”

Q raised a repudiating eyebrow.

T’Mollek sighed and admitted, “My mentor convinced the Captain that I would be a valuable asset on a rescue team to the planet Algalon. A dozen children have come down with an illness that cannot be identified. They are dying but cannot be removed due to contamination risk.”

“Ah yes, Algalon,” Q said smiling, leaning back against the wall and placing his right ankle on his left knee, taking up as much space as possible. “The captain mentioned that. And your mentor convinced Captain Picard that you have what it takes to solve this year-long mystery?”

“How do you know they have been sick for a year?”

“I know my way around the galaxy. I know more than you ever could in half a billion lifetimes.”

“Then you know that the last thing I want is your interference in the course of my career. I will succeed or fail on my own terms.”

With catlike stealth, Q was suddenly on his feet, stepping closer to her, his eyes boring into hers. “I know that's what you _think_ you want,” he said quietly, trying to get a read on her. “But I know better. I can see it in those blue eyes of yours . . .”

They were almost hypnotizing each other with their eyes and Q couldn’t stop babbling. “There's fire in you. It's just bursting to get out and burn this mother down.”

This turn of phrase snapped T’Mollek out of her spell. “What does that even mean?”

Still staring into her eyes, mesmerized, Q murmured, “What?” Then a second later he too snapped out of it. “What are you doing to me? Who _are_ you? Are you a member of the Continuum?”

“Am I a . . . what?”

“I don’t recognize you,” he said, scrutinizing her face, nose to nose with her. “Is this a disguise?” He put a finger under her chin and gently tipped her head back, as though searching for a mask seam. T’Mollek gasped softly at his touch.

“You felt that, too, didn’t you?” he whispered.

“Felt . . . ?” Words seemed to be suddenly difficult for T’Mollek.

Q grinned as delighted realization grew within him. He had the upper hand now, and he circled her, sizing her up. “You’re not in control of this at all. . . .” he said, contemplating the possibilities.

“Doctor?” a voice called from down the hall.

T’Mollek jumped, startled, and looked to her left. Mateer was walking briskly toward her although he couldn’t see her in the dark corner where she stood.

“So much for your Irish exit,” Q whispered into her ear from behind her. He snapped his fingers and vanished. She took a shuddering breath as though she hadn’t breathed in some time.

“There you are, Doctor! I’ve been waiting to make that toast! Come!” He put his hand to her back and urged her along. In the spirit of courtesy, she allowed the slight physical contact, although it disturbed her.

Not, however, as much as physical contact with Q had.

The toast went as embarrassingly as she had expected it to. To make matters worse, Riker had remarked that he might have underestimated her qualifications after all. He would be expecting great things of her. They all would.

Terrific.

As the entire party raised their glasses in honor of the brave doctor who had saved the children, T’Mollek spotted Q at the back of the room, holding up a glass and grinning. She couldn’t take her eyes away and realized that, Cheshire Cat style, he had faded away, his grin fading last of all.

She wasn’t happy about any of this. Not at all.


	4. Spring AwaQening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has brought out emotions the pediatrician didn't know she was capable of. It's up to Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi to help her sort out her feels.

The party went on long into the night. When they beamed back to the _Enterprise_ , T’Mollek went straight to bed, where she slept fitfully, dreaming strange but not unpleasant dreams she could not quite remember when she woke the next morning.

She reported to sickbay where she assisted Dr. Crusher with an experiment at the biosafety cabinet. She was injecting various cells from Vulcan tissues with the Tarsen virus, attempting to develop a vaccine.

As they worked, Dr. Crusher attempted to make small talk but found that T’Mollek was even more reticent than Dr. Selar, the Vulcan doctor who had served on the _Enterprise_ until a few years ago. Every question she asked about T’Mollek’s experiences on Syroda were met with one- or two-word answers.

When their shift was over, Dr. Crusher made a perfunctory invitation to join her and Deanna Troi in Ten Forward for dinner and was completely shocked when T’Mollek accepted.

T’Mollek didn’t have much to say during dinner but seemed quite attentive to their conversation. Troi sensed that T’Mollek had something to say but was trying to find a natural opening to bring it up. Vulcans were difficult to read so Troi tried a variety of ice breakers, hoping to stumble upon the topic that would open her up. She asked Beverly about the musical she was directing, she brought up the latest conference she had attended and some of the interesting people she had met there, and she somehow even managed to talk about the weather. But what finally opened the door for T’Mollek was an off-hand remark she made about her dessert.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think the replicator put too much chocolate on this sundae.”

“Is it true that chocolate produces endorphins in some species?” T’Mollek asked.

“It contains a small dose of the neurotransmitter phenylethylamine, which does produce endorphins, yes,” said Dr. Crusher.

“And it makes you feel . . . different?” she asked the counselor.

“It calms me after a tense or difficult day. Would you like to try some? I know it’s an intoxicant for Vulcans. Does it affect you in that way?”

“It . . . has,” T’Mollek said with a shake of her head, not wanting to share the details of her early adolescence. “Does it also affect the heart?”

“Well, it contains some caffeine, which, in large quantities can cause heart palpitations,” Dr. Crusher said. “Why do you ask?”

“I experienced another . . . episode while on Syroda. It happened at the banquet, just following dinner. I do not believe any chocolate was served, but after dinner I suffered symptoms consistent with intoxication.”

Troi could sense distress from the Vulcan. “Do you think you were drugged?”

T’Mollek wasn’t sure how to answer. She definitely suspected Q had done something to her, but she did not believe he would utilize something as mundane as drugs. She felt another wave of dizziness just talking about it. She put her hand to her forehead. “I’m not sure, but it has had a . . . lingering effect.”

“Let’s get you checked out at sickbay,” Dr. Crusher said with concern, standing up. She held an arm out to T’Mollek in case she needed help standing, but she did not.

“Counselor Troi?” T’Mollek said.

“I’m coming,” Troi answered, setting her spoon down. “Absolutely.”

***

“I have never experienced electromagnetic hypersensitivity before,” T’Mollek said as Dr. Crusher scanned her for the second time in as many days. “However, since my arrival on the _Enterprise_ yesterday, my heart races, my palms sweat, my pupils dilate. . . “

“You can feel your pupils dilating?” Dr. Crusher asked with interest.

“. . . I experience dizziness and euphoria. I believe there is something physically wrong with my heart.”

“There’s no sign of toxins in your system,” Crusher said. “The only thing slightly off is that you're showing elevated levels of oxytocin.”

She and Troi shared a look.

T’Mollek looked perplexed. “Impossible. My body does not produce oxytocin.”

“Well, it's producing it now,” said Dr. Crusher. “Quite a lot of it, in fact.”

“But . . . that is a human hormone.”

Troi pointed out, “You _are_ half—”

“I am aware of my heritage, Counselor,” T’Mollek said calmly. Then, realizing she had cut her off, apologized. “Pardon my outburst.”

“T’Mollek, I think you're physically fine,” Crusher said. “Oxytocin is produced by many mammalian humanoids and animals alike. Not just humans.”  
  
“But not by Vulcans or Romulans. And never by me.”

“You say this happened to you in the turbolift and again at the party,” said Crusher, “but Captain Picard and Commander Riker didn't feel it at either time?”

“Yes.”

“T’Mollek, this may come as a shock,” Troi said, “but what I think you're experiencing is . . . a crush.”

Concerned by this turn of phrase and confused by her lack of knowledge of the medical condition, T’Mollek turned to Crusher and asked, “What malady causes the heart to be crushed?”

Dr. Crusher and Troi smiled. “No, your heart isn’t physically being crushed,” said Crusher, trying to find the words to explain. “Deanna?”

“What I am sensing from you, T’Mollek, is . . . a feeling like that of love.”

“Love is an emotion based on illogic,” T’Mollek said witheringly.

“Yes, I know,” Troi began indulgently, a smile in her black eyes.

T’Mollek felt herself being patronized and did not care for it nor did she have the time for it. She simply wanted a cure and to be on her way. “It is impossible. I do not _feel_. I haven't felt emotion in many years.”

“I know you've worked very hard at controlling your emotions over the past twenty-five years,” said the counselor, “but can you rightly say that deep down you don’t feel?”

“Isn't it possible,” added Crusher, “that something—or someone—has created a . . . chink in your armor?”

“No,” she answered firmly.

Gently, Crusher said, “I believe there has.”

“You are free to believe what you wish. Excuse me.” T’Mollek hopped off the exam table and exited the sickbay.

Crusher and Troi looked at each other.

“Will?” Crusher guessed.

Troi recalled Will’s strange, flirtatious behavior in Ten Forward the previous day.

“Will,” she agreed.

***

Commander Will Riker was giving T’Mollek a dressing down in his quarters. He didn’t have an office. That was by choice. He preferred to do his administrative work and personnel reviews in Ten Forward. However, Picard had asked him to conduct this review in private to spare T’Mollek the embarrassment and to protect her dignity. The conference room was in use, so the front room of his quarters would have to do.

“It was completely unprofessional and a potential diplomatic disaster for you to deliberately run off right before the toast was given _in your honor_ ,” he was saying.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how bad that made you look? How bad it made us _all_ look?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were you _thinking_?”

“I was uncomfortable with the attention.”

“You were uncomfortable. Did you stop to think for one minute how uncomfortable the captain and I felt when Mateer was standing there toasting someone who _wasn’t even there_?”

“No, sir.”

“ _You knew_ he was about to give a toast. He told us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you go for so long?”

“There was a dark corner off the hallway.”

“So you just went there and . . . sat there by yourself for a half an hour?”

She wanted so desperately to answer in the affirmative, but she could not. “No, sir.”

He waited for more, but she remained silent. “Well, what were you doing?”

T’Mollek did not want to answer. But she could not lie. She was constitutionally incapable. “I was having a conversation with Q.”

In the time between opening his mouth to respond and words actually forming, Riker processed what she had just said. “You . . . were . . . wha— _Q?”_ he sputtered semi-coherently. “You were harboring a fugitive in the very home where he’d committed murder?”

“Allegedly,” she corrected. “And he didn’t do it.”

“That is for a Syrodan court of law to determine. The fact remains, you knew he was a suspect, yet you did nothing.”

“Commander, what was I to do? Scream? Arrest him? With a snap of his fingers, he would be gone.”

He opened his mouth to retort once more, but this time simply closed it with a tight jaw and a frustrated grimace. He couldn’t argue with that logic. She had barely passed her Starfleet exit exam and had served for eleven years on a quiet starbase treating children for ear infections and scraped knees. What _did_ he expect her to have done?

“All right, Doctor,” he said. “You’re free to go. But don’t let anything like that happen again.”

“No, sir. It is not likely that a banquet will again be held in my honor.”

He looked at her, trying to determine if she was being sarcastic or merely truthful.

“No,” he said seriously. “I suppose it’s not.”

He cocked his head toward the door dismissively and looked down at the PADD in his hand, to report on the diplomatic faux pas in her permanent record.

T’Mollek exited the room into the hallway, where she was greeted by Deanna Troi, who had been on her way to warn Will that a certain new crew member appeared to have a bit of a crush on him. Deanna immediately was hit by a wave of emotions from T’Mollek, whose guard was down. The feelings were complicated: a mixture of annoyance, embarrassment, and . . . yes, there it was. Love.

Troi practically grabbed her by the hand and dragged her off to sickbay. As they turned the corner, they saw Dr. Crusher walking toward them.

“Beverly, could we check T’Mollek’s oxytocin levels one more time, please?” Troi asked. “Right away?”

“Certainly,” she said quickly, turning around.

They headed back toward sickbay when a crewman walking toward them, eyes on the PADD in his hand, obliviously bumped into T’Mollek, and her books fell to the floor. The strange thing was that she hadn't been carrying any books.

She looked up at him and his back was to her. He wore a black leather jacket with the word “T Birds” and a flying avian creature emblazoned on the back in white stitching. The crewman turned and helped her pick up the books she’d dropped, mumbling a sullen apology, his brown hair greased back with pomade. In confusion, T’Mollek reached for a book at the same time he did. They looked up and their eyes locked. He flashed her a wicked grin.

“What’s up, you cool baby?” he said in a low, smooth voice. He winked at her and in flash of light, he vanished.

T’Mollek very quickly stood up and then immediately gasped and lost her balance, actually swooning a bit. The blood had rushed to her feet, she thought, because she had stood too quickly.

Dr. Crusher and Troi gaped at T’Mollek, who had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a poodle skirt, bobby socks, saddle shoes, and a shiny pink jacket with “Pink Ladies” written in black script on the back.

“Oh, my god,” Crusher breathed.

Horrified, Troi exclaimed, “You're in love with Q!”

***

T’Mollek veritably dragged her new friends into the medical conference room, closed the door, and sat down, hands clasped in front of her, serious and businesslike.

“First of all,” she said as Crusher waved a handheld scanner up and down in front of her, “I am not ‘in love’ with anyone—least of all, Q.” She suddenly realized a scarf was holding her long hair in place and yanked it out. “These . . . feelings are not within my control. They are stronger and more powerful than anything I've ever—”

She tried to come up with the right word but was disgusted by the only one that seemed to fit.

“— _felt._ Q claims that he is not manipulating me physically, and that he, in fact, has reciprocal feelings for me. I am certain that someone or something is creating these feelings within us, artificially. To what purpose, I do not know. But the feelings are not real.”

“T'Mollek,” Troi said soothingly, “love can hit us when we least expect it.”

“And for the people we least expect,” Crusher added.

“Or want,” Troi put in knowingly.

“And I would really call it more of an infatuation than love,” Crusher inserted, trying to be helpful.

“I know what I sensed,” Troi said quietly through gritted teeth. Crusher held up her hands up in a "my mistake; carry on" gesture.

“I feel complete revulsion for Q,” T’Mollek said. “And yet . . . a strange attraction. Such a strong attraction. I think about him when he is not near me. And then when he _is_ . . .” She shook her head helplessly. “It makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Troi said.

“But how? Why would I feel attracted to— _Q_?” She virtually shuddered at the thought—or perhaps it was more at the admission.

“Well,” said Crusher thoughtfully. “He's powerful. Many people find power to be a particularly strong aphrodisiac.”

“And he focuses his attention on you,” said Troi. “He appears to be actively pursuing you. That’s attractive. And he seems to find you attractive. Although I can't read him, so I don't know if that’s sincere or not.”

“And then there's the whole . . . 'bad boy' thing,” Crusher said, her mouth twitching into a knowing smile.

“Bad boy thing?” T’Mollek repeated.

“He represents . . . rebellion, adventure, and danger,” Crusher said. “Something I believe you experienced in your past but may have suppressed in more recent years?”

“I do sense an inner conflict in you regarding your service in Starfleet,” said Troi. “You had a tumultuous past and you wish to put that behind you. But I think you have grown bored with your peaceful life. And yet you avoid conflict and danger, even though it's all you knew throughout your childhood.”

“And of course, there's the desire to fix the broken,” Crusher said. “Q is impudent, insolent, petulant, destructive. Many people have the innate desire to rehabilitate the incorrigible.”

“On the positive side,” Troi said kindly, “you respect his abilities. You respect his intellect. You are entertained by his sense of humor, his mischief. Perhaps you sense that he's lonely and you want to help him, to be there for him. It's natural.”

“It's not necessarily _healthy,_ ” Crusher said wryly. “But it's natural.”

“Oh, it’s completely unhealthy,” Troi fervently agreed.

T’Mollek shook her head resolutely. “I still believe that he or someone else is actually forcing these feelings in me. That this is part of some . . . scheme to cause trouble for me.” She hoped they wouldn’t ask her to theorize on why Q would want to cause trouble for her.

“That certainly sounds plausible, given Q’s . . . machinations,” Troi said, remembering the time he had convinced her own mother that he was in love with her. That had been devastating to the poor woman. “However, he's a complete blank to me. Have you tried . . . talking to him?”

T’Mollek was disdainful. “Talking to him? About this?”

“Yes,” Crusher urged. “Talk to him.”

“Do I have to?” T’Mollek said in a small voice.

“It may be the only way to get to the bottom of what you're experiencing with him,” Troi said.

T’Mollek sighed, irritably. “I suppose you are correct.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should give a prize to the person who finds the most musical theatre references in this work.


	5. NachQ Libre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q joins the pediatrician in the holodeck, where she is going toe to toe with a luchador. Q has some helpful hints about her form, but she will NOT HEAR IT.

Crusher and Troi had talked her into attending that evening’s performance of _The Music Man_. They thought it might help her understand and process some of the new emotions she was feeling.

The lead role of Professor Harold Hill was being played by one of Crusher’s core actors, Lieutenant Commander Data. A Soong-type android, Data had recently been implanted with an emotion chip, which he ultimately rejected. He had studied acting with Dr. Crusher for a number of years in the pursuit of discovering emotions in a more organic way.

His performance was not in any way natural or convincing, although technically it was flawless. Nevertheless, T’Mollek found his final line of the show resonated with her. Professor Hill explains to his love interest’s little brother that he cannot leave town because for the first time in his life, he has gotten his “foot caught in the door.” This appeared to be a metaphor representing his newfound emotional ties to the town in which his lover resided.

T’Mollek had never felt a connection like that to anyone or any place. Although she had been on Starbase 11 for eleven years, she knew that she could pack up and leave at any time. And she wasn’t entirely certain that was satisfying to her.

She left the theatre before the actors came out to greet the audience.

To take her mind off the issues that were bothering her, she decided to try out the ship’s holodeck. She had brought a program with her, created for her by T’Sharr. It was to help her prepare for her upcoming mission.

“Computer,” she ordered. “Specter Program One.”

A shirtless wrestler appeared before her as clearly as if he had been real. He wore tight white pants and a white mask that covered his head. Holes were cut out for his eyes, nose, and mouth, and the black markings around these features made the mask resemble a decomposing skull. The mouth was particularly garish, outlined in a wide black grin with white teeth painted across above and below. He was holding a knife and standing with his feet wide apart. She took a stance and he rushed toward her, stabbing the air as he came. She held up an arm and dodged backward but was too late. The knife sliced her wrist and a small jolt of electricity shocked her. It left a bright green mark.

He came for her again, and it went no better. The third time, she kicked him in the face, which deterred him slightly. But he came back with even more determination and she was “cut” in the face with the holographic knife. The green mark stung, but she didn’t react. She kept on.

The fourth charge was met with a sharp kick to his wrist, and the knife was knocked from his hand. However, he kicked the falling knife with his heel, it flipped into the air, and he caught it by the handle. It was a slick move—his signature move. He did this as he was in motion toward her, knocking her to the floor with a swift and frankly unnecessary punch to the nose. All at once his right knee had pinned her chest and his knife was raised for the kill.

Before he could make his death strike, a ninja in black appeared, poised with a sword. The wrestler stood up and brandished the knife. Before he could make a move, the ninja spun and leapt through the air in a gravity-defying circle as T’Mollek stood up. He sliced the head clean off the wrestler with the sword. The head flew into the air, landed, and spun comically on the floor at T’Mollek’s feet as if it were a dropped jar lid. The body stood for a moment with the hands pawing at the neck area as though looking for a lost writing utensil in the dark. Then the shoulders shrugged exaggeratedly and the body collapsed as well.

T’Mollek looked down at the decapitated head, over to the bloodless corpse, and then up at the ninja. She brushed the trickle of green blood from under her nose and tilted her head at him questioningly. He tossed his sword to the ground and went after her, Sumo-style. They sparred a bit and then he dropped her to the ground, pinning her. He looked down at her, and she could see the familiar eyes through the black mask, glistening with mischief.

“You are not in this program,” she told him placidly.

“Who said anything about a program?” Q said, removing the mask, but not removing himself from her.

T’Mollek took a deep breath, not wanting to admit how comfortable and _right_ it seemed to feel his body pinning her to the floor. “And who are you supposed to be?”

He looked at her mysteriously. “You can call me . . . Silent E.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Watching you get your ass handed to you by a hologram.”

“Remove yourself from my person, please.”

“Make me,” Q challenged.

T’Mollek glared at him, flipped him off her, and pinned him in return. Her legs intertwined with his, and she easily twisted his upper body, leaving him physically helpless. He grinned, utterly delighted.

“You're terrible at hand to hand combat,” he crowed, “but _wrasslin'_ is really your sport.”

T’Mollek was extremely aware of him between her legs, and herself between his. In fact, they both were. She momentarily considered pushing her pelvis against him. It would be so easy and, again, it would feel so right. They were nose to nose, breathing heavily into each other’s faces.

“Are we about to kiss?” Q asked quietly. “I feel like we’re about to kiss.”

T’Mollek gritted her teeth, then gingerly and with as much dignity as she could muster climbed off and stood next to him, still in the power position.

Still supine, Q pointed to her nose. “You really know how to take a punch, don't you?”

She swiped the back of her hand under her nose again as he held up a hand to her. She looked at it, debating whether to take it or to simply make a statement by walking away. She decided it wouldn’t be sportsmanly to walk away like that, and if she was being honest (which she wasn’t) she just wanted to touch his hand.

She helped him to his feet.

“End program,” she said to the computer, and the room dissolved, leaving only the black and white grid of an empty holodeck. She picked up the black ninja mask from the floor and handed it to him. “Nice mask.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“You really like costumes, don’t you?”

“You seem to be into that sort of thing,” he commented with a nod toward the luchador’s corpse.

“Do you sing and dance as well?”

“You had your chance,” he said, handing her a handkerchief for her still-bleeding nose. “You know the computer is recording your progress for your permanent record, right?”

“I am aware,” she said, dabbing at her nose.

“I could adjust it for you, give you a few W’s.” He put his hand up to produce his magicks.

“No,” she said sharply. “Do not.” She turned and walked away from him toward the door, surreptitiously wiping the sweat from her brow.

“Seriously, though,” he called to her back, “that was quite a spectacular defeat.”

“Thank you,” she said, not looking back.

“I applaud your willingness to better yourself through holo-training,” he said as he raced ahead of her, blocking her way to the door. “But you're going get yourself killed. Your form is all wrong, it's throwing off your balance.”

“I don't need your analysis,” she said as she tried to get past him.

“Oh, but I think you do,” Q argued, blocking her exit at the door and deftly taking her wrist in his hand. “Here . . . you have to hold your fists like this. . . .”

He stood behind her and held her arms up into position. T’Mollek felt her face grow hot and her head dizzy. She weakly but resolutely pulled away and he let her go.

“Well, you're never going to improve if you can't learn to take constructive criticism,” he chided. “Isn't that why you graduated at the bottom of your class at Starfleet? Or was it your lack of leadership skills?”

“Their idea of leadership is to constantly put oneself in a spotlight,” she said, inadvertently defensive. “That is not the only form of leadership.”

“Well, it’s the most _obvious_ form. . . .”

“If everyone were leaders, then who would they lead?”

Q opened his mouth to respond then closed it. Satisfied, T’Mollek turned and walked toward the door.

“Vulcan . . . logic. . . .” Q stammered, flummoxed. He quickly got his footing back, however, and hurried toward her, overtook her, and stepped in front of her once again. “Or was it fear of success that kept you from realizing your true potential?”

T’Mollek sighed. “What makes you think you know my 'true potential'? Or anything at all about me?”

She moved past him and exited the holodeck. Q followed her down the corridor.

“I know more about you than you know about you.”

“What is your end game?” she questioned, still walking, not looking at him. “Why did you choose me for this constant barrage of torment?”

“I _didn't_ choose you,” he said seriously. “I'm not in control here, remember?”

“Then who is? Despite what others might say, this isn't happening naturally. My ‘emotions’ and their resultant physical reactions are being manipulated by an outside force.”

“The Continuum insists they aren't doing it. And they're giving me no end of grief for my failure to control my own feelings. They claim I've softened as a result of my interest in humanity.”

T’Mollek stopped walking and faced him. “I must remind you, I am not human.”

“You're human enough.”

“Why do you insist on insulting me?”

“I didn't thinks Vulcans could be insulted.”

She continued walking, looking straight ahead. “Quite untrue. There is no one in the universe more sensitive than Vulcans. They claim not to be effected by emotion. They are stoic. But nobody feels shame or embarrassment or disgust more deeply. If a Vulcan were truly unemotional and stoic, he would think nothing of—”

She paused, grasping for the most humiliating thing she could think of.

“Of standing naked in the middle of an arena full of spectators and . . . howling like an animal. But a Vulcan would sooner die.” She paused, then spit the word, “Hypocrites” with more ferocity than she had intended.

She got on the turbolift. Q stopped for a moment in the hallway outside the lift. “Boy, you don't like anybody, do you? Humans, Vulcans . . .” He followed her onto the turbolift.

“ _All_ beings have their self-delusional weaknesses and contradictions,” she said.

“See, this is why I think we'd get along,” Q said fondly. “I want to get to know you better.” He sidled up to her, continuing provocatively, “I want to, dare I say, spend time _alone_ with you.” Then more conversationally, he asked, “You see where I'm going with this, don't you?”

“I have no interest in a relationship with a god,” T’Mollek said stoically, staring straight ahead.

“I’m no god.”

“You are omniscient, omnipotent—” She gave him the side eye. “Omni _present._ I have no interest in opening myself up to someone with so much power.”

“Very well,” he said airily. “Then tell me to leave. Once and for all. And you will never see me again in your lifetime. I will never return to the _Enterprise_ as long as you are a member of her crew. Tell me to go, Doctor Tomahawk. And I will go.”

T’Mollek turned to him and opened her mouth, bound to dismiss him once and for all. He was a dangerous distraction—and he could not have worse timing. Unfortunately, the words she sought to utter simply would not come. She closed her mouth and exhaled sharply through her nose. Her heart was pounding.

Sweetly, Q put his hand to her ear and cocked his head. “Hm? I didn't hear you.”

She turned away from him, beaten. The turbolift door opened and she stepped forward. Unfortunately, she misjudged the doorway in her haziness of thought and walked into the wall.

Q smiled, simultaneously affectionate and patronizing. “You’re adorkable.”

With great dignity, T’Mollek straightened herself out. “That is not a word.”

She walked out, knowing he would follow her. She tried to keep the smile off her face. She had resigned herself to take Troi and Crusher’s advice and talk to him about her feelings. During her holo-fight with Specter, she had been preparing her speech and was actually looking forward to it and seeing where it would lead.

“I just don’t think you’re ready for me yet,” he said, shaking his head and grinning cockily. “Luckily for you, I’m willing to wait for it. Abyssinia!”

“Wait,” she said, turning around quickly. “What does that—?”

But he snapped his fingers and vanished in a flash of light.

T’Mollek turned to see the long, empty corridor. She took a deep breath.

She felt tremendously alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole luchador thing came out of nowhere, but it will make sense later.

**Author's Note:**

> So how bad is this?


End file.
